Silk
by Mrs. James Norrington
Summary: Elisabeth/Death vignette. "Elisabeth..." His tongue caresses her name as his lips fold possessively around it. She glowers at him, not particularly surprised by his presence. She has long since ceased to be surprised by his presence.


**Background: **Elisabeth's marriage has, by this time, significantly deteriorated, and she manages her boredom and loneliness with various affairs, much to the annoyance of Der Tod, possessive as he is. She feels betrayed and isolated, but not at all prepared to die. Historically, I'd say this concept works, but as far as the musical time-line goes, I'm discounting "The Last Chance" a bit...I'd say it takes place afterwards, because that messes with canon less, but it still messes with canon a bit...Oh, well, never mind. That's why it's fanfiction.

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**Silk  
**By Mrs. James Norrington

Fandom: Elisabeth, das Musical  
Pairing: Elisabeth/Der Tod  
Universe: 2001 Essen Cast in mind (Pia and Uwe), with definite influences from the 2007 Snow Troupe production in Japan

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"Your Majesty." The young nobleman moves to kiss her, and she dodges coquettishly, waving him away. He knows better than to ask when or if he will see her again; that is her decision, and hers alone. She kisses him indulgently on the cheek, as she might an enthusiastic child, and sends him out the door, not bothering to call him by his name because she is not certain if she remembers it correctly. She does not especially want to hurt his feelings.

She shuts the door to her chamber and bolts it behind her. It is early…quite how early she can not be certain.

"Your Majesty." Death's voice is mocking. He leans against the wall opposite her, a smirk playing over his lips. "Elisabeth…" His tongue caresses her name, his lips folding possessively around it as if he is savoring the way it tastes.

She glowers at him, not particularly surprised by his presence. She has long since ceased to be surprised by his presence.

"This latest one did not please you," he states matter-of-factly with that same infuriating smirk.

Her first inclination is to ask him how he can be so certain, but she does not want to give him the satisfaction of informing her that he was watching, as she knows he was. She can always feel when he is watching.

"Perhaps. Perhaps not," she says dismissively, brushing imaginary dust from the bedpost. She prefers not took look at him. Seeing him fully clothed makes her feel at a disadvantage, as she wears nothing under her thin dressing gown. He does little to hide the fact that he finds her state of undress captivating; his eyes have been tracing her shamelessly ever since she first acknowledged his presence in the room.

"You seemed…distracted," he ventures again, delicately.

Raising her head, she eyes him warily, wondering what he is getting at. She remains silent, knowing from his smug expression that he will not be able to resist clarifying.

"Were you thinking of me?"

Her composure slips from her fingers and hits the floor with a crash that is practically audible. She gapes at him for a moment without speaking. Blood rushes to her face, and she scolds herself for allowing him to see it.

"Of all the _arrogant…_self-_deluding_…" she hisses furiously, angrier at her own slip than at his words. She strides toward him until they are quite close, even though she practically has to stand on her toes to look him in the face.

"Were you?" he presses, sounding genuinely curious. Curious…and amused.

She strikes out at him, and he catches her wrist, his long fingers encircling it effortlessly. His grip is firm, but not painful. She tries to pull back and he does not let her go. He lifts her chin with his fingertips, and she stares into clear, cold eyes.

"Why do you waste yourself on those men, Elisabeth? They are shallow, insipid fools…You are but a prize to them…and they are but trinkets to you."

"And yet you envy them." This time it is she who has the upper hand. His grip slackens and she frees herself easily, letting her feet carry her away from him at a leisurely pace, a tiny, triumphant smile on her lips.

She turns back to him, wondering how badly she has wounded his pride this time, and his face betrays nothing. His gaze is contemplative, his eyes never leaving her. No matter. It does not unnerve her so much as it did only moments previously.

"Yes," he says simply. "I envy them."

His frankness throws her slightly off-balance. She softens against her will. How stupid she can be.

"If you had been anyone else…I…" She trails off. She does not know what she had wanted to say. She begins to reach for him without being fully conscious of what she is doing. He takes a cautious step toward her and the trance is broken. She turns her back on him abruptly, searching for words to make him leave. She is so weary of games.

"Go. I must begin dressing."

"Shall I assist you?" The sudden feeling of his hand on her arm startles her. He has crossed the room in a split second, and she does not recall hearing him move.

She does not reply at once, more concerned with returning her heart rate to normal—a formidable task indeed as his hand glides down her arm, coming to rest on the sash of her dressing gown, where it pauses, waiting for her permission.

She draws in a sharp breath.

The fingertips of his left hand run smoothly up and down her arm, and the right still hovers…waiting…waiting…

Very well. Why not?

Pushing the hand away, she undoes the sash herself…slowly…The roar of her pulse in her ears is nearly deafening, and she finds herself reveling in it more than she probably ought to…

Through this cacophony, she thinks she hears his breath catch.

She does not stop him as she feels the silk begin to run off her shoulders, as she feels his hands brushing over them, gentle, reverent…He shifts her hair to one side, pressing his lips to the base of her neck, to her shoulders, to her back…

She shudders violently as the dressing gown pools at her feet, as his hands find her waist…and there is nothing left but cold, nothing but the caresses that turn her blood to ice, even as his light kisses sear her skin…

She cannot stop herself shivering, although she clenches her teeth and digs her fingernails into her palms…Noticing this, he pulls her back against the velvet of his coat, wrapping his arms around her and resting his cheek against her hair, so that his skin no longer touches hers. It is a rather poor attempt to warm her, if that is, indeed, his aim, but it is enough. She closes her eyes. For the time being, it seems that Death is content simply to hold her, and against her better judgment, she is content simply to be held.

"Let me stay with you," he murmurs, his lips against her ear. "Let me hold you as your lovers do. Let me stay with you…"

But oh, how he does stay with her! He haunts her every waking moment and follows her into her dreams…He, more than anyone, should know the reason she takes no pleasure in her lovers, in mortal kisses and the touch of human hands...

She leans back into his chest, marveling at how long it has been since he has last held her. It alarms her to remember how bizarrely reassuring it feels…How frightening it is to think that she could stay like this forever, forgetting everything...How frightening it is to think that she feels complete in his arms, and that she is so desperate for completion that she is willing to trust him. He is much gentler than she had expected; it is as if he fears to startle her, to lose her. He has been gentle before, although those are not her clearest memories of him. She wonders why it should surprise her as much as it does.

Taking her hand in his, he brings it slowly upward, kissing her palm and laying it against his cheek. She rests her head back against his shoulder, and his lips graze her neck again, his fingertips lightly tracing her breasts.

In that instant, there seems nothing more natural than to let him make love to her, to accept the kiss that will inevitably find her lips as she loses herself in him…

Loses herself…

She jolts forward, tearing herself from his embrace.

"Leave me alone." She does not look at him. She cannot. She gathers her dressing gown into her arms hugging it tightly against her chest, burying her face in the crumpled silk.

"Elisabeth…" He touches her shoulder, and she flinches away. She wishes he would shout at her, storm about, try to pull her away with him…His gentleness is so much more difficult to fight than his anger. His gentleness makes it so much harder to hate him.

"Elisabeth," he says again, quietly. He takes her arm, attempting to turn her to face him.

"Go!" she shouts, with as much force as she can muster. Her voice sounds ragged and harsh, not her own at all.

She throws her dressing gown back around her shoulders...and as she does, she steps on the hem of it...and as she steps on the hem of it, she stumbles backward a little...and as she stumbles, she falls.

There is no longer anyone there to catch her.


End file.
